


Flowers Are Romantic

by MissMaudlin



Category: Emma Approved
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Flowers, Fluff, More Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:52:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2149755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaudlin/pseuds/MissMaudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I told you I could get a girl flowers."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers Are Romantic

I.

When Alex hands her the bouquet, she’s so surprised she can hardly speak. Is he going to ask her if Harriet likes flowers? Harriet probably loves flowers. She’d probably stutter and blush and be awkward Harriet if Alex gave her flowers. But why would he give them to her first? Does he want her advice? Wait, no, Alex would never ask her for love advice.

The scent of roses and calla lilies and irises drifts to her. She grips the stems tighter.

“But flowers are romantic.” That’s all she can say. Flowers are romantic. Alex has given her flowers, which are romantic; ergo, Alex is doing something romantic. For her. For her?

For her. For Emma. Not for Harriet. For _her._

Alex just nods and smiles.

“Flowers are romantic,” she says again.

He says the words— _Emma Woodhouse, I don’t have the words to tell you how in love with you I am_ —and she knows.

Alex loves her. He doesn’t love Harriet. He loves her.

She forgets the flowers the moment they kiss.

 

II.

The first bouquet has wilted when Alex gives her another bouquet. This time, it’s full of Easter lilies and ferns with bright spots of pink roses.

“What are these for?” she asks him, smelling the sweet flowers, her heart beating fast.

Alex just smiles again and takes her hand. “We’ve been together one month, Emma Woodhouse.” He brings her hand up to his mouth and kisses her fingers. “So I’m celebrating.”

Emma stands still for a moment, reveling in his lips against her fingers.

She just barely remembers to set the flowers on her desk before throwing her arms around him and kissing him so hard she sees stars behind her eyelids.

 

III.

She’s lost count when she receives the bouquet of tulips.

“Tulips?” she asks. They’re bright purple and deep red.

“They remind me of you,” Alex says simply.

They’re sitting on his couch—his couch from his old apartment, as they live together now—and Emma looks back at him. “I remind you of tulips?”

He strokes her hair, twirling a strand around his finger. Alex loves her hair, Emma knows: loves to touch it; he even brushes it sometimes, until it’s sleek and soft. “You’re colorful like them.”

Emma smiles. “Flowers generally are colorful.”

He continues to twirl that strand around his finger. When the entire strand is wrapped around his finger, he lets go and starts the movement again. “True. But tulips are also hardy.”

“Hardy!”

“You have to plant them during the fall, so the bulbs get a hard freeze. Without that, they don’t bloom.”

“So I’m a tulip bulb now? Mr. Knightley, I think I’m insulted.”

Alex smiles and leans closer. “You are Emma Woodhouse, and you are strong enough to withstand the hardest freeze. And then in the spring, you bloom into something beautiful.” He touches one of the purple ones. “And purple tulips mean royalty, which you are.” He then touches one of the red ones. “And red ones mean perfect love, which is what we have.”

Emma wants to tease him for reading Wikipedia again, for knowing the meaning behind tulips, for knowing the meanings behind particular colors of tulips, for calling her a tulip bulb, for being so cheesy, but all she can feel is how very romantic this man is, this man who loves spreadsheets and khakis and who won’t pay more than $10 for a haircut or $25 for a pair of shoes.

So instead she kisses him and then rests her head against his heart, the tulips in her lap.

 

IV.

When Emma arrives home on a Friday, there are bouquets of roses on every available surface: the kitchen table, the coffee table, the mantel, the stereo, the TV, the counters and the dressers. She follows the sound of music outside to the deck, where Alex waits for her.

He’s dressed up—for him, that’s a tie and dark slacks—and he looks nervous. The entire deck is also covered in bouquets of wine red roses, so many roses that she can smell them just standing there. Alex has also hung strings of lights and lit candles, so the entire deck looks like a fairyland, sparkling in the dark of the night.

“What are all of these bouquets?” she asks. It’s all she can ask right now; her heart is too full.

Alex comes to her and takes her to one of the chairs. As she sits, he kneels in front of her. He takes her hand. “There are 689 roses in this apartment because we’ve dated 689 days.” He smiles. “Well, technically 689.5 days, but I couldn’t really get the florist to agree to a half rose.”

Emma feels tears coming, and now they’re falling because she knows what he’s going to say, what he’s going to ask.

“And I have to tell you that they have been the best 689.5 days of my life,” Alex continues. “And I want to continue to have those days with you.”

He pulls a velvet box from his pocket and Emma starts crying so hard she can hardly see or hear him when he asks, “Emma Woodhouse, will you marry me?”

She’s shaking and she realizes she hasn’t said anything when he asks, his voice tight, “Emma? Say something.”

She remembers then that day, when they finally realized they had feelings for each other, when she was so overwhelmed that she couldn’t find the words to speak. And now Emma laughs, thinking about that day and how much has changed. So she just leans forward and kisses Alex like she did that day and now he knows that her kisses mean yes, yes, yes.

As he puts the ring on her finger, Alex says, “You were worrying me there for a second.” And then he reaches onto the table and gives her a bouquet of red, white, pink and yellow roses, the biggest bouquet of the bunch.

Emma just shakes her head, smiling, glancing down at the diamond sparkling in the light, at the flowers in her hands. “More flowers?”

Alex smiles. “Of course. Because flowers are romantic.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all know now: flowers are romantic.


End file.
